Years ago, when he had just started his training as a page, Reuben used to train against straw dummies in the courtyard of his father's castle. Fighting against these two men reminded him a bit of that experience, only the men didn't move quite so fast.
He had one by the collar and out the window within five seconds. The second took even less time. Reuben went for variety and threw him out of the open inn door. From outside, he heard loud cursing, and not in Italian.
“You lout! How dare you get in my way?”
“Scusa, sua Eccellenza,” came the heavily accented voice one of the men, filled with fear. “It wasn't my doing! This man threw me—he won't leave our master's house!”
“The Roaring Lion?”
“Si, sua Eccellenza. And this man...”
“Man? What man?”
Footsteps came up the outer stairs and the door, which had swung shut again after Reuben had flung that impudent servant out, flew open. In the doorway stood a broadly-built man of about thirty, his head bald, his prominent chin adorned by a straight-cut black beard that seemed hewn out of black basalt. One couldn't see much of his mouth through the barrier of blackness, but Reuben thought it was a fair guess to say that it wasn't smiling at the moment.
“Master Accorso, what is going on here?” the stranger demanded of the innkeeper, and Reuben was delighted to see, as the man turned, that he wore a knight's crest on his surcoat. Here was someone who would understand!
“Sir Wilhelm!” The innkeeper swallowed, then pointed to Reuben. “This man wants a room, but will not pay for it. When I told him to leave, he refused.”
“Vagabonds in the hallway?” Sir Wilhelm knit his brow as he turned and approached Reuben. “We can't have that. We—”
He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the “vagabond.” Reuben smiled. The coat of arms on his long, elegant surcoat was just as visible as the one on Sir Wilhelm’s.
“This is the vagabond?” he asked the innkeeper.
“I am no vagabond, good sir. That man is lying,” Reuben said with a dismissive gesture at the innkeeper. “I was perfectly willing to pay for the room, with the money I told him I would win in the tournament.”
“You?” Sir Wilhelm barked a laugh, his eyes fastening on Reuben's youthful features. “A sapling like you, win a joust in the tournament? Are you even a knight yet?”
“I,” Reuben proclaimed, raising his chin, “am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the Imperial Crusade Forces. You will address me with the respect due my station or pay the price, Sir.”
“Imperial Crusade Forces?” Sir Wilhelm lifted an eyebrow. “Do you mean the Crusade the Emperor undertook to Jerusalem?”
“Yes.” Reuben almost felt himself grow a few inches. His father’s name was obviously known.
“The one he undertook while he was excommunicated from the church, and all the old ladies in Jerusalem were said to have shown his army their naked rear ends, to demonstrate how highly they thought of him and his commander?”
Color flushed to Reuben's cheeks, and he stopped growing. His father had never told him that particular part of the story...
“So, Sir Reuben,” Sir Wilhelm inquired. “Why do you not pay this good man here the price he demands, if you want to stay in his inn?”
“Because I do not have the money yet. But I will give him my word of honor as the duke's son that I shall have it as soon as the jousts are over.”
“A duke's son, eh?” Sir Wilhelm snorted. “Why not a king's or the Emperor’s? A duke’s son would have money in his pocket, boy! I think you've had a little too much to drink and played dress-up in your master’s clothes. Come now. Leave, and I won't have to knock your head against the wall.”
Reuben's spine stiffened. “Are you doubting my word of honor, Sir? I tell you, I am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von...”
“By the Apostles! You've really had a few more pints of beer than is good for you, lad.” The humor went out of the black-bearded knight's voice. “Do you know that impersonating a nobleman is a crime? Out with you, now, before I have you whipped for your impertinence!”
Reuben's hand slowly went to his belt, where his sword hung. “Are you issuing a challenge, Sir?”
The innkeeper had been watching the scene with increasing apprehension. Now, as Reuben's hand landed on the pommel of his sword, he gave a little squeak and hurried to hide behind his desk. Of all the possible outcomes of this little episode, he had apparently not reckoned with a sword fight in his parlor.
“Get your hands off that sword, boy, or a whipping will be the least of your troubles!” Now, there was no trace of humor in Sir Wilhelm's voice. On the contrary, it was hard and cold.
“I will leave my hand wherever it pleases me, Sir Knight,” Reuben told him. “I do not wish for an unnecessary confrontation. But if you continue to doubt my word, you put my honor into question. As a knight, I cannot let that stand. Please, Sir, retract your words.”
But Sir Wilhelm apparently thought there had been enough words of any kind. Marching forward, he extended his hands to grab Reuben by the collar.
Reuben whirled and evaded him easily, ducking under the other man's arm and coming up at his back.
“God's death!” Sir Wilhelm growled. “Stay still!”
“You dare to profane the name of God, Sir?” Reuben exclaimed. “Someone ought to teach you a lesson of how a true knight behaves!”
“A true knight...? I will wring you by the neck until you choke, you puny little peasant brat! Come here!”
Reuben, however, had other plans. This lout needed to be taught a lesson in chivalry. And it probably wouldn't do the innkeeper any harm, either, to see that a knight's word was worth more than gold and his fists were harder than iron.
Sir Wilhelm struck out, but Reuben was prepared. He had been taught by the best masters his father could afford, and with his father's wealth, that meant the best in the Empire. Sir Wilhelm's fist whistled harmlessly past his ear, trying to hit a target that had suddenly vanished. The knight stumbled forward, and Reuben grabbed the opportunity. His fist swung around, hitting his opponent in the side and sending him flying.
“Porco Dio!” cried the innkeeper, as the knight slammed into a shelf full of crockery, and plates and cups started to rain down on him. “I beg you, signori, stop! My house will be demolished, I shall be utterly ruined. Please...”
But Sir Wilhelm was past playing the protector of the little man now. His dark eyes were burning with rage, and a precious painted cup was dangling from his ear. He brushed it aside with another oath, and it hit the opposite wall, smashing into a thousand tiny pieces.
“No! Signori, I beg you...”
Neither of the two paid any attention to the innkeeper. They were circling each other, staring into each other’s eyes the way only warriors can stare into each other’s eyes—men who know that there are more important things on earth than crockery. For example, giving your adversary a bloody nose.
This time, it was Reuben who was the first to move. He went for Sir Wilhelm's surcoat, trying to grab it, but the older knight sprang back in time. His fist shot out, trying to punch Reuben while he was off balance. Reuben grabbed the arm and pulled. They both went down onto the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.
“Signori! No! No brawl in my parlor, please!”
Sir Wilhelm came up on top. He raised both hands to deliver a stunning blow to Reuben's head—a mistake. He should have kept one arm free for defense. A wolfish grin on his face, Reuben hit upwards with that blinding speed that had allowed him to beat many of his instructors green and blue. His fist hit Sir Wilhelm right under the chin, snapping the knight's head back and punching the breath out of him.
With a groan, he collapsed onto Reuben, who rolled sideways, forcing the other man underneath him. A fitting place for such a low-minded toad! Pressing his knees into the man's sides to prevent him from freeing himself, he delivered another blow, this time to the stomach. A groan erupted from Sir Wilhelm.
“Do you wish to apologize for your lack of courtly manners now?” Reuben inquired, politely.
“Never, I umpf—”
The next blow hit Sir Wilhelm in the chest, driving him back onto the floor, just as he had been about to rise.
“Are you sure?” Reuben checked. “Maybe you'd like to reconsider...”
“God's tee—” But the knight didn't get any further. Reuben's hand had clamped down on his mouth.
“What did I tell you about taking the Lord's name in vain?” Reuben said, admonishingly. “Come now, Sir Knight. I know that, deep down, you are a good Christian. Will you end this pointless fight and apologize for your behavior?”
“Mfrggrrrr!”
“I'm sorry? I didn't exactly catch that.”
“Rrrmm!”
Judging that it would give the man a better chance to show his repentance, Reuben took his hand away from Sir Wilhelm's mouth. The knight promptly lunged and tried to sink his teeth into his opponent's hand.
“I'm sorry to say that I don't count that as a fitting apology,” Reuben told him, and raised his fist.
When, about a minute or so later, he rose to his feet, Sir Wilhelm wasn't biting anymore. He didn't seem to be capable of doing much more than lying on the floor and groaning.
With a brilliant smile, Reuben turned to the innkeeper. “That's settled. Well, would you be so kind as to have my things brought up to my room now?”
Signore Accorso opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. It was all too clear what he wished to say. Whether or not he dared to was another matter entirely.
However, he was spared the peril of an answer by the intervention of his two servants, who had sneaked back into the room and were now helping Sir Wilhelm back to his feet. The knight looked a bit cross-eyed, but most of all, red with wrath.
“You,” he rasped, pointing a shaking finger at Reuben. “You are really a knight?”
“I swear by my the honor of my house, Sir,” Reuben said with a courteous bow, “that I am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the...”
“Yes, yes! You are of age, and you are knighted?”
“Indeed I am, Sir.”
“And you intend to compete in the tournament?”
“That is my intention. Have you regretted your words? Do you wish to apologize?”
“On the contrary.” With a dangerous glint in his eyes, Sir Wilhelm shook off the two servants who were trying to clean his stained surcoat, and pulled the glove from his left hand. With two strides, he was in front of Reuben, who, knowing what Sir Wilhelm was going to do, did nothing to stop him.
The glove slapped across his face with a little bit too much force. He winced inwardly, but did not let the pain show. The glove slipped away and landed in front of him on the floor.
“I,” said the knight, “Sir Wilhelm von Richtershalden, challenge you, Sir Reuben von Limburg, to a contest of arms at the great tournament of Palermo. God shall decide which one of us is in the right. Shall you meet me in the field and let the strength of our arms speak for us?”
“I shall,” Reuben replied with a broad smile, bending to pick up the gauntlet. Wonderful! He had been in Palermo for only one day, and already he had his first duel scheduled. This was truly the land of adventure he had been looking for.
Sir Wilhelm turned his hot gaze to the innkeeper. Reaching into his purse, he flipped the man a coin, which the Sicilian caught expertly. “For the damage,” Sir Wilhelm said. “Let him stay. Give him a room, food, wine, everything he wants.”
He turned his eyes back to Reuben, and the heat in them intensified.
“When I've run him through with my lance, I'll come and pay his bill.”